"That's it," he breathed, awe and disgust mingling until his voice quavered. Thalatha's free hand brushed his elbow—steady.
Runes snaked around the roots like manacles, ancient Binding glyphs twisted into cancerous spirals. Wherever the lines crossed, the wood jutted spines, as though trying to tear them free yet forced to grow with the corruption.
Mikhailis advanced one cautious step at a time, boots clicking on crystalline sap deposits. He unclipped a sterilized vial from his belt, gloved fingers trembling. In and out. One sample, proof for the Elders, maybe a cure. Rodion shadowed him, torso low despite mangled legs, humming a sub-bass counter to the room's eerie buzzing.
Thalatha watched the surrounding balconies—wooden ledges half-crumbled into jagged jaws—arrow ready but breath shallow. Her lantern light danced along her cheekbones, turning sweat to emerald pearls.
